Habits
by Lunavere
Summary: The first time Jim Moriarty broke into 221B, he hadn't been expecting much, and he definitely didn't expect it to become a habit.


**Author's Note: **You may have seen this story before. That's because my work was **_STOLEN_** and _**REPOSTED**_ on this site. In order to prevent future hiccoughs, I have decided to go against my wishes and post my works on here as well as AO3.

* * *

The first time Jim broke into 221B, he had done it for sport. Just to irritate Sherlock, really, and to have a poke around, see what he could find out. Maybe he would even leave a little note for them to find when they returned. Just something to let them know for sure that he had been there. Oh, he could just picture Sherlock's face: those bushy eyebrows coming together, the slight tilt of the head, those brilliant blue eyes flickering back and forth across the page, and his mind whirling at the speed of light in order to click all the pieces together. It would be a glorious sight, but one that he wouldn't have the privilege of seeing.

Unless he planted video cameras in the flat. Now, there was a thought.

Suddenly, he heard a distant groan. Freezing, Jim listened carefully for another noise. He hadn't been expecting for anyone to be home. Not even the landlady should be here. Jim had ensured it, after all. So who was unaccounted for in his plans? Listening a moment longer, Jim heard several painful coughs coming from upstairs. John's bedroom. He must be incredibly sick to let Sherlock go on a case without him. Or perhaps Sherlock got the text and decided – out of the goodness of his heart or some nonsense like that – to let John stay.

Slowly and carefully, Jim tip-toed up the stairs to John's bedroom. He paused when he heard another cough and soft groan – the bed creaking while weight shifted from one side to the other. After a minute of silence, Jim continued his climb and arrived outside John's door. He waited a few more minutes, wanting to ensure that John wasn't about to get out of bed for some reason, before reaching forward. His fingers slid across the rough, flat wood of the door. Gently, he placed pressure and allowed the door to gradually swing open. Blinking a few times, Jim forced his eyesight to adjust.

Moonlight streamed in through the window, illuminating a small section of John's bed. John himself was just a large, black lump, buried beneath a white duvet. It rippled as John shifted a touch, stretching out straighter. Despite the duvet covering John's form, Jim could tell from the size and shape that John was curled on his side. He imagined that it vaguely resembled the foetal position – spine barely curved, knees together and brought up, and ankles crossed. Possibly, he had a hand across his chest. Most people had the misconception that a sleeping position spoke to some underlying personality traits in a human being. Jim, of course, knew better. Sleeping positions merely gave away John's comfort level in his own bedroom. From John's position, Jim knew that he was comfortable in there. And why shouldn't he be? It was his own room – somewhere he was familiar with by now – and separate from Sherlock's area. This place was uniquely John's.

A soft snore caught Jim's attention, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He hadn't imagined that John would be a snorer. Then again, maybe the illness he had – most likely a bad cold – caused him to snore. Even so, Jim remained slightly rigid where he was. Honestly, he couldn't believe that he was getting this glimpse into John's personal life. He could do anything he wanted right now – or, better still, hire someone to do whatever he wanted. Hell, he could set the flat on fire with the chemicals Sherlock kept downstairs. Or he could hire someone to come in late at night and shoot John. Or he could poison John's pillow. Maybe he should torment John first. Placing a horse head in a bed always was something Jim wanted to try at least once. Or, better still, he could drag this out over months. Start with exchanging John's sheets with smaller ones. No doubt Sherlock would be blamed. Maybe with enough probing, Jim could tear them apart. And once Sherlock was on his own, they would be on an even playing field. Perhaps he could even convince Sherlock to join him…

Suddenly, John shifted again. Snapping out of his thoughts, Jim watched as John resettled in the bed. On the other hand, it was rather fascinating that John could sleep so soundly. It almost felt like Jim was part of a privileged group. One of the few to ever see John Watson sleep. Suddenly, he remembered just how many girlfriends John had, and he almost laughed. So the large privileged group. Even so, it felt like something intimate between the two of them. Logic told him that John didn't know he was there – couldn't know he was there – and was just sleeping soundly because he had fallen asleep before Jim even arrived. But this thought process – the very idea of John not knowing – bothered him, and he frowned, unsure of why. Turning on his heels, Jim headed back down the stairs and out of 221B Baker Street.

. : . : . : . : . : .

It was weeks before Jim could organise for Sherlock to go out without John by his side. After all, it had to be carefully planned – one crime within another and links that were indecipherable to anyone but Sherlock. And he had to ensure that Sherlock needed to take time to uncover the connection. If it happened too soon, John would still be awake to follow Sherlock. If it took too much time, John might just be getting up or it could be close enough to dawn for Sherlock to decide that he could wake John himself. Not that Jim minded, of course. It gave him a new challenge to work through. And once he had it all sorted, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock went dashing out of the flat without saying a single word to John. Eagerness and pride had always been Sherlock's downfalls. Well… that and sentiment.

Although Jim would never admit it aloud, he didn't know what was pushing him to see John sleep again. All Sebastian knew was that Jim wanted to get back into 221B. And that's all he needed to know, really.

After watching Sherlock dash out of the flat alone, Jim waited quietly for ten minutes. He needed to ensure himself that Sherlock wouldn't suddenly turn around and return to 221B for something important. Even so, those ten minutes were the longest of his life, as Jim was checking his watch almost every 20 seconds to see how much time had passed. As soon as the time had passed, Jim jogged across the street and into 221B. He could hear Mrs Hudson talking to a neighbour on the phone, so he crept up the stairs, having memorised where the groans and creaks in the floorboards were. Once he arrived at the top, he listened carefully to make sure that John wasn't awake. Carefully, he slid back into the bedroom.

John was as he had been before – curled up on his side, facing away from the door. Tilting his head, Jim tentatively took a step into the room. He was breaching into John's territory, and he loved every second of it. It was exhilarating in a way. What if John woke up? What if he woke up to find Jim standing there? How would he react? Would he scream? Cower? Draw a weapon? Yell? Call for Sherlock? Attack? Oh – that would be a fantastic reaction. An outright attack. Seeing another dominant male in his territory and just launching himself into his fight mode. Jim was sure John still knew plenty of moves from the army.

This time, Jim gradually approached the bed. He stood next to the empty side and just gazed at John. What _was_ so special about the man anyway? What drew a mind like Sherlock's to him? As far as Jim could tell, John was just an average bloke. Less than average height, sure, but average weight and intelligence for a former army doctor. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Honestly, there was nothing that brought anyone's attention to John. Especially not the attention of a mind like Sherlock Holmes's.

He supposed – in a way – he should have seen the irony in this sooner. In an attempt to find out what was so peculiar about John, he had become obsessed with John Watson himself. However, it was a different kind of obsession. Sherlock was sentimental about it all while Jim remained logical. Thus, John Watson would be Sherlock Holmes's downfall. Jim was sure of it.

Slowly, the thrill of being in John's space was dissipating. He needed a new stimulant – something to get his heart racing once more. So he carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. His heart shot to his throat as more possibilities ran through his mind. If John woke up and turned around, expecting to find Sherlock and finding Jim – he would feel even more violated than before. Probably more scared. And considering his previous job, he would not freeze at the sign of a threat. Jim wondered what he would go for first: a weapon or Jim himself. And if he went for Jim, would he aim for his torso or neck? Strangle or punch or kick or break? It was refreshing to know there were a variety of possibilities. For once, Jim couldn't just inherently know what someone would do.

For a moment, John stirred, and Jim tensed up, bracing himself for the inevitable. But John resettled quickly and resumed his heavy breathing. So he was still sick then. Probably hadn't recovered as per usual because of Sherlock and the cases. Hard to recover when one is consistently unable to get proper rest. Smirking, Jim sat there a while longer, wanting to push his luck a bit more. Then he grudgingly rose to his feet, glanced back at John, and crept out of the room once more.

. : . : . : . : . : .

Another two months passed before Jim could find the perfect time to return to 221B. He sauntered into John's bedroom, having become accustomed to it after the first two times, and didn't even hesitate before sliding onto the bed. As he had before, John stirred slightly before relaxing back into the mattress. Jim lay there and grinned smugly. John Watson was sleeping next to his worst enemy without even knowing it.

Eventually, even that excitement wore off. Sighing, Jim knew the he would have to keep pushing in order to get that rush he so desperately needed. He remained quiet for a moment longer before finally coming to a decision.

His voice was low as he spoke, "I can only imagine how you might react right now, Johnny. But let's be honest – my guess would be spot-on. You would jolt awake and have that half-horrified, half-baffled look on your face. That same look you had when you were kidnapped by my men. Such a glorious expression, really. I'm so glad I wired that car, now that I think about it. But I digress. After the initial shock, you would steel yourself for anything and everything. Possible kidnapping – assault – murder. Although, really, having me in your bedroom is hardly the most terrifying thing you could wake up to."

Jim stopped speaking for a moment. John was still sleeping soundly next to him, and he found himself in a surprisingly nonlethal mood. "What do normal people talk about?" he pondered aloud. "I must say that my memory of it is a bit blurry. My first murder was at eleven, you see. It was the only one I saw to myself. But after that, I just stopped trying to interact with others. Exchanging small talk, I think it's called. Seemed rather pointless, after all, and soon people were coming to me for advice. It started off with small things, though, like how to cheat on an exam, how to catch a cheating boyfriend. Later on, it began to develop. It turned into revenge on the cheating boyfriend and how to humiliate a love rival. However, I still found all of that incredibly boring. That's when I started interacting with the delinquents at my school. I began to scheme and plan their different crimes. I learned how to properly rob a store, how to shoplift undetected, and the like. Only after University did I really start forming my web into what it is today. It's quite magnificent if I do say so myself.

"But I digress. Back to the original question at hand – what do normal people usually talk about? I'm sure that not even Sherlock knows, despite the fact that he is currently living with you. And I can assume that it's something tedious and boring, such as chatting about the weather or what the relatives have done. As if anyone _really_ wants to hear about something like that. But since it's just you and me, and you're sleeping so heavily that the apocalypse could happen and you wouldn't know about it, I might as well give it a shot, no? Besides, it'll help when I have to pull off another cover like Jim from IT. That was painful, you know. At least the persona required for me to be a bit awkward. This next persona, though, I have to be perfect for. Act like a normal human being, more or less. That requires small talk. So… family… Well, I don't talk to them anymore, although they are alive. Well, most of them are. As for the weather, I mean, it's London. If you came here for the sunny skies and warmth, you're a blundering idiot who deserves to be killed if only for the sake of the evolution of our species.

"So what else is there? My day? I suppose it went well. I planned three robberies, but only two will succeed. The third won't because the men who hired me are too stupid to be able to pull it off correctly. Oh, well, it's hardly my problem. I already have prisoners working for me in every prison should anyone in the group decide that they want to talk about me to Scotland Yard."

With that, Jim finally paused in his mini-tirade. It was the most he had spoken in ages, and he was surprised just how naturally everything seemed to flow. He knew it was John – it had to be – since he never felt so comfortable around anyone else. Perhaps that's why Sherlock kept him close? It wouldn't surprise Jim, after all. Sherlock had this penchant for having friends, although John was his only real success story. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson made close seconds, though. It was three more people than Jim had in any case.

Looking over at John's sleeping form, Jim wondered if he should kidnap him again. Perhaps he would be able to have whatever Sherlock seemed to have then. It was something Jim craved if only because he craved anything he didn't have. After all, it was his desires that kept him going. Merely existing was hardly living, and Sherlock and John both were alive. Not like Jim. Frowning, Jim shook his head before getting up. "Some other time, Johnny-boy," he murmured before heading out of the room.

. : . : . : . : . : .

John had started to become one of Jim's routines. He would go through the day of work, check up on 221B, and if John was going to bed, he would head on over to stake out the place. Additionally, he started to keep tabs on John throughout the day, especially if John and Sherlock were working a particularly dangerous case. If John ever came into immediate danger, Jim made sure that it was averted. He told himself that it was to irritate Sherlock – get to the bad guy before he could – but a part of Jim knew that that was a lie. Even so, he would never admit that aloud.

Today was a particularly exciting day. Jim had saved John's life – once more – by having Moran snipe the Russian hit man… who also happened to be a sniper. Jim loved the irony of it. Impatiently, he waited for John to finally get in bed. Then he had to wait for John to be in a deep enough sleep. Finally, he headed into 221B and up the stairs. He slipped quietly into John's room, sliding over and onto the bed. Once situated, he closed his eyes and just listened for a bit. The sound of deep, even breathing. The noise from the streets below. The ticking of the clock. Jim took it all in for a moment.

"I saved you today, you know," he explained. "You and Sherlock really must pay better attention to your surroundings. If I wasn't so competent, I'm sure you would have been killed at least five times by now." He grinned, enjoying the fact that John owed him his life… even if he didn't know it. "You're practically indebted to me. Lifelong servitude would have been required back in the old days. Honestly, I wish we had never moved on from then. They had plenty of things right, although most of them are now considered barbaric. Even so, there's just something so… significant about staking your worst enemy's head outside your house. We lack that sort of significance in our world anymore."

John stirred, causing Jim to go rigid in the bed. It wasn't unusual for John to move while Jim was over, but it put Jim on edge whenever it happened. Every time, he thought that this would be it: the moment John discovered him in his bed. Every time, he held his breath. Every time, John simply resettled and slept peacefully. Once John had stilled, Jim let out a long held breath and relaxed into the mattress. His adrenaline continued to pump, and he couldn't help but be slightly aroused by the dangerous aspect of the situation.

"You have the most uncomfortable bed in the world," he complained, feeling a spring dig into his back. "I'm half tempted to have it replaced without you knowing. One night, you walk up here, and suddenly you feel like you're sleeping on a cloud instead of the barren earth." He shifted a bit in order to stop the spring from digging into his back. "Think of how baffled you would be."

John stirred once more, and Jim froze. He remained silent longer this time, wanting to make sure that John remained sleeping. Gradually, he felt more comfortable to speak once again. "I digressed earlier. I seem to do that a lot whenever speaking to you. In any case, I saved your life… again… today. You think you could be a bit more grateful and not get into so many life-or-death situations. It's practically a full-time job keeping up with you. I hardly mind it, though, since it gives me something interesting to do while everyone else is being so dreadfully boring. I mean, there's only so many times you can make plans to rob a bank before you start getting tired of it. Forgery is a bit more fun, but once I made all the connections I needed, it also lost its lustre. In the end – and no matter how grotesque this sounds – murder is still the most exciting thing to plan. There are just so many ways to do it. So many things could go wrong. And although New Scotland Yard is remarkably laughable, Sherlock at least keeps things interesting by staying on his toes. He's the only real challenging foe I have nowadays. Although honestly, Mycroft can be quite entertaining himself when he wants to be."

When John stirred a third time, Jim knew he was pushing his luck. Once John resettled, Jim rose to his feet and planned on leaving. Suddenly, he heard the downstairs door burst open. His heart stopped when he heard Sherlock call out John's name before his adrenaline kicked in. What should he do? Hide? Stay in plain sight? Claim he had something dastardly up his sleeve? How would Sherlock react? Or John for that matter? Surely then, though, he wouldn't be able to visit again. That just wouldn't do.

With a groan, he glanced around the room. Just as Sherlock made it to the first floor, Jim slipped underneath the bed. Once more, Sherlock yelled John's name.

"For fuck's sake," John groaned, finally waking up. His voice sounded appealing somehow, deep and slow with sleep. Jim had never heard John sound like that before. "What is it, Sherlock?" he shouted back.

"The case! Remember? The one I'm working on? I've figured it out. Come quickly!" Sherlock responded.

John hopped out of bed, pulled on a pair of trousers, and sprinted out of the room. Letting out a long breath, Jim listened as they left the flat. He got out from his hiding place, still trembling from the adrenaline rush, and began to laugh. "Well, that was fun," he said to himself, looking at the empty bed.

. : . : . : . : . : .

Jim's leg bounced up and down as he waited. Not too long now. Finally, an hour had passed since John went to bed, and Jim sprang up. He didn't even care that Sherlock hadn't left yet – he was far too absorbed in his case to notice. Hurrying back into the flat, he scrambled silently up the stairs and hurried into John's bedroom. He barely kept himself from throwing himself onto the bed from his excitement.

"The best thing happened today!" he quickly informed John. "I couldn't wait to tell you about it."

He looked over, grinning, and then stopped. John was asleep. John didn't know Jim was there. In fact, John didn't even know that Jim had been coming to visit him regularly. What was he even doing anymore? This was even worse than the imaginary friends he had as a child. For the first time in years, Jim was overwhelmed with sadness. It was heart wrenching – far too much like the sadness he felt when he was younger. His mother had once identified it as loneliness. Even now, he could hear her soft voice as she spoke to his father. "He's a lonely boy," she used to say.

For the first time since he was ten, tears sprang to his eyes. He stared at John's back as his body began to wrack with sobs. Quickly, he covered his face with his hands and just let the tears roll down his cheeks without fighting them. Suddenly, he was pulled into a tight embrace. He buried his face in John's chest as he just let himself cry. Eventually, everything coalesced in his mind. John was holding him. John was awake.

Going rigid, Jim stopped crying as he felt a surge of adrenaline and the need to fight and flee. Everything started clicking together in his mind, deduction after deduction being sorted out and replayed. "How long have you known?"

"Since the beginning, I am assuming, but I'm not really sure. I listened to you talk to me, though."

Jim took his time digesting this information, calculating his next move. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asked.

"Well, I had the world's only consulting criminal in my bed, talking to me. You thought I was asleep, and I thought that's what kept me safe. Did you honestly think that it was a coincidence that I suddenly started going to sleep in my own bed more often?"

Grimacing, Jim rebuked himself for not noticing that sooner. For not noticing any of this sooner. He pulled away from John and got out of bed. John stared at him with wide eyes – the moonlight coming in from the window hitting his face just right. Of all nights for there to be no clouds…

"I'll just go now," Jim replied. He felt weak and stupid, both feelings he hated having. He hadn't felt this way since Carl Powers bullied him, but this time, it didn't give him a strong urge to kill as it had back then. Honestly, it just humiliated him.

"You're welcome here anytime to talk as long you don't kill me," John informed him softly.

"Do not count on that," Jim stated before leaving the room.

. : . : . : . : . : .

Two months later, Jim headed back to John's bedroom. He stared down at John's form before clearing his throat. Flipping over, John looked up and offered a small smile.

"Welcome back. What happened today?" he asked.

Jim gave a half-smile in return. "I saved your life… again."


End file.
